


(don't make me) spell it out

by canardroublard



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Brief Violence, Character Development, Developing Relationship, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Illya 'Pls Step on Me' Kuryakin gets the pegging he deserves, Injury, Multi, Pegging, Polyamory Negotiations, Porn With Plot, and loves it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 05:46:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18424101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canardroublard/pseuds/canardroublard
Summary: Gaby is proud to say she came up with the idea without Solo's debauched help.





	(don't make me) spell it out

**Author's Note:**

> I did what had to be done. For Illya's sake.
> 
> (See end note for additional/more specific warnings around the sex, injury and brief psychological shock/trauma.)

When the three of them first crash together a few months after Rome, the sensible part of Gaby is aware that it's a terrible idea; adding sex to the tangled mess of working together, traveling together, staying in the same safehouses and hotels and spending far too much time together in general.

Though it's hard to remember why it's such a terrible idea when she watches Solo slowly sink into Illya, sees the way Illya grasps the sheets and reels like the ground has been yanked out from under him. Under her gaze, Illya is unmade as he shudders apart, face open with awe.

Gaby likes to think she's not inexperienced and she'd known this is how men fuck, but she'd never quite imagined it would be like _this_.

She doesn't know how Solo has managed not to come when he pulls out but she doesn't care because she's too busy switching condoms then pushing him back and fucking herself down onto him. Solo gasps like she's socked him in the gut, groans, filthy, low, 'Jesus, Gabs.' Gaby closes her eyes and remembers Rome, pictures the way Illya had stared up, up at her, eyes wide with something she couldn't identify, as his chilled hands had ghosted up, up her trembling thigh.

Gaby comes harder than she ever has in her life. Distantly, she's pretty sure Solo does too.

After they all clean up, Illya tugs her against his side. Her nerves jangle with too soon, too close. And this is why it's a terrible idea. Illya. Whatever exists between her and him, she knows that 'casual sex' is not a balance they will be able to maintain. He wants too much; she wants too badly to run.

She lets him hold her until he falls asleep. When he starts to snore she untangles herself and sits up. Solo catches her gaze across Illya's chest.

He doesn't stop her when she leaves.

 

* * *

 

A week later Illya fucks Solo.

And because it's _Illya_ , who cares too much, more than anyone who's lived his life should be able, enough to almost make up for Gaby's distrust and Solo's cynicism, he spends what feels like an eternity opening Solo up with just one finger in achingly slow strokes until he's hard against his own stomach from the treatment and Illya is just as hard from the noises Solo has been making.

Gaby sits next to Illya, watching as he adds a second finger, which draws a ' _finally_ ' from Solo, then goes deeper and gives his wrist a twist, as precise and knowing as the motions he makes when disassembling a pistol.

Solo swears, eyes flying open, cock twitching. A tiny smirk slides onto Illya's face.

"Where," Solo exhales between galloping breaths, "did you learn to do that?"

Illya's smirk grows. "Don't think you are the only one who has...experimented, Cowboy."

Then he twists his wrist again. Smug is not an expression that Gaby has seen often on Illya but it looks very good on him. Equally good is the pleased groan Solo makes when Illya gives up the teasing and actually fucks into him for the first time.

But Solo doesn't leave her to watch for long. As Illya finds a rhythm Solo finds her hand, tugging her away from the sight of him clenching around Illya's cock, and pulls her up to straddle his chest.

"Really?" she asks, raising a dubious eyebrow. "Don't you want to focus on–?"

Solo's poise is only briefly dislodged when Illya makes what must be an especially hard thrust. But he returns to her, grin in place, and guides her onto her knees over his face.

"I think you'll find–” Solo’s words against her thigh are damp and dark and deep with promise "–that I am an excellent multitasker."

He's not wrong.

 

* * *

 

The next week Illya is pissing her off. They really do spend too much time together. She should probably go for a walk to get away from him, but instead she grabs him by the front of another one of his stupid turtlenecks and drags him back against the wall.

He makes a startled sound which turns to a bearish growl when she hauls him down for something that's as much bite as kiss. They grapple, rough and angry and perfect, right up to the point when Gaby pushes him down onto the couch and he finally surrenders to her, lying back and gazing up at her with glazed, awestruck eyes as she gets his dick out, rolls on the condom that she’d grabbed when their grappling took them past the bathroom, and fucks herself onto him. She slaps his hands away when he tries to take her by the hips, wishing he weren't so pointlessly tall so she could pin his hands over his head.

A heady thrill of raw power crashes over her as he surrenders, giving himself to use as she pleases.

(Mine, mine, _mine_ , chants something deep in Gaby's chest)

She slips a hand between her own thighs, finishes before him, then lets herself sit back to observe his unsated squirming with disaffected want.

As she catches her breath she tips her head to the side. Solo's there, leaning against the doorway to the living room. She's not sure when he arrived. He’s eyeing her like he’s just learned something about her that she doesn’t yet understand about herself.

Gaby gets up, ignoring the desperate noise Illya makes, tugs her dress down and wanders over to Solo. If she didn't know better she'd almost say he looks proud.

"He's all yours," Gaby says, still pissed off enough at Illya to just take what she needs from him for once.

"How generous," Solo drawls as she slips past him.

 

* * *

 

They're _sleeping together_ but they're not sleeping together. Even after a month, Gaby won't fall asleep in their beds and never invites them into hers.

No one comments when she leaves. She doesn't try to hide her departures from Solo, whose expression is always blank when she meets his gaze. Despite her best efforts Illya catches her slipping out a few times. He gives her a gutted, hollow look which she can't quite face head on, but he says nothing.

She thinks that Solo and Illya do some literal sleeping together. Sometimes as she hunts for her clothes Solo will slide across the bed, tucking into Illya's side, stealthy as if he's performing some deft sleight of hand.

She doesn’t comment. She tries not to think about why he acts like the only way he’ll get these quiet moments is if he steals them.

 

* * *

 

“Can you just tell me...do you want this?”

Gaby freezes, one foot on the floor, the other still on the bed. “Go back to sleep,” she tells Illya. She keeps staring into the dark, wondering how long he’s wanted to ask this, wondering how long she can avoid answering.

Illya releases a breath. She hears the covers shift as he turns away from her. Somehow he manages to make that sound disappointed.

As she leaves, she wishes that someday she could say the right things for him. Say enough.

 

* * *

 

Though everyone enjoys it, the guys don't fuck each other every time. Sometimes they don't feel like it, don't have the energy, don't have the patience for the prep. But when they do Gaby watches, some vague, insistent stirring of _want_ coursing through her that doesn't just feel like arousal.

It's not even the act itself so much. She's mostly stopped watching where they join. It's the way that whenever Solo pushes home for the first time, Illya swallows, thick, then his mouth drops open in a soundless wail. The way that when Illya does the same Solo takes a bitten-off, fitful breath, like something has wrapped around his chest and is squeezing the air from his lungs.

It's the way Illya looks like he's found God when Solo hits just the right angle. The way Solo, suave, unflappable Solo, is completely undone when Illya strokes all the way into him, deep and slow.

Gaby wants that for herself. Wants to have them pleading for her to rip them apart at the seams.

Yet she never feels neglected. Plenty of days the men lavish her with attention until she can't bear to be touched anymore. Illya is so tender and generous that she thinks he would eat her out for hours if she asked. And Solo, well, Solo gives and gives and gives, anything she wants, gives so much of himself that sometimes she wonders if he even knows how to be with people who don't just view him as something to be consumed then tossed aside, empty.

And she starts to fuck into them, too, with slicked-up fingers. The first time, as she slides carefully into Solo, Illya slips one finger along beside hers, guiding her touch until she learns the feel for it, then retreating to let her have her way until Solo is writhing desperately and Illya finally puts him out of his agony with his mouth. She wouldn’t be unsatisfied if they kept doing this forever.

(Forever? A very, very dangerous thought. The kind of thing she worries that Illya is asking for.)

And yet.

 

* * *

 

The idea comes to her gradually. And she's proud to say she thinks of it without Solo's debauched help. Still, he's the first one she goes to.

"I want to fuck Illya.”

Solo coughs. "Good morning to you too." He sets down his newspaper to eye her across the breakfast table of the latest safehouse. "Coffee's up."

"Didn't you hear me? I want to–"

"Fuck Illya. Yes, I heard. Good for you, he'll be thrilled." Solo flips up the newspaper again, disappearing from view. "I think he's just jumping in the shower if you want to j–"

Gaby shakes her head. "No, not like that. I want to..." She hates that she can feel herself blushing. So she scowls and possibly over-corrects. "I want to fuck him in the ass.”

Over the top of the newspaper Solo's eyebrows shoot up. “You want to fuck him in the ass."

"Yes."

"With more than your fingers."

"Yes."

Solo makes a soft 'hm'. The newspaper slides all the way down to the table. He's starting to annoy Gaby, because he's staring at her like some puzzle he's been working on has finally begun to form a picture, which is not at all fair since she's pretty sure she's still fumbling around trying to join the pieces two at a time.

"Well, he really will be thrilled," Solo finally says. "Did you want my help with that, or...?"

"No." Frustrated, Gaby sits in the chair next to him, trying to figure out how to explain. "I mean, I don't–There must be a way for me to...do that?"

For a brief moment, Solo bites his lip. "There are ways. Several, in fact. To start, you could–"

What follows is quite possibly the most obscene conversation that Gaby has ever been party to. She really, _really_ hopes that Waverly isn't bugging them.

 

* * *

 

That night Gaby broaches the subject with Illya. Her timing is strategic; he's just been fucked by Solo, hard, so he's in a particularly good mood.

"Illya, what would you think about...about me doing that to you?"

He blinks at her, wide-eyed, then goes so completely still, not even breathing, that for a second Gaby could almost think he has died.

"Do you want to?" he asks carefully.

"I asked you first," she points out, peevish with nerves and not in the mood for him to treat her like fine porcelain. "Obviously I want it."

Illya's face does about four different things at once. After a moment it settles on a hazy, far-away look, like he's imagining it. "Ah. That would be–" His Adam's apple jolts. "Yes. I would like that, if you want."

Gaby doesn't quite know how to respond. She hadn't expected such easy agreement, isn't used to being with people who do strange things like genuinely caring for her and wanting her to be happy.

"So, what'd I miss?" Solo breezes back into the room, naked and shamelessly so, settling beside Gaby on the bed. No one answers but something about the scene must give them away. "You asked him?"

Gaby shrugs, somehow gladdened that Solo is there, despite the interruption. Though she'd never admit this to him, he steadies her in a way she's also unused to. She's never had anyone she could rely on, but he’s always had her back, even in this thing between all of them that she refuses to call a 'relationship' because she thinks Illya would make something of the word that she isn't ready to hear.

“Well? What do you say, Peril?" Solo prompts.

Illya grins.

 

* * *

 

Gaby's plans get derailed for a while. First, because their next mission takes them to Warsaw, which Solo describes as 'an absolutely terrible place to buy sex toys, between the Catholics and the communists', making Illya nearly snort coffee out his nose, though he doesn't disagree.

Second, because Illya has to go and get fucking stabbed.

The danger of their jobs has been a largely abstract, distant thing in the face of their uneventful missions post-Rome, until now. And even in Rome, none of them had gotten hurt like _this_. So Gaby, in retrospect, doesn’t handle it well.

That it's while protecting her only makes it worse. Of course he would. Before she even has time to fully comprehend what’s happening, Illya has used his arm to block the knife of a hitman lunging at her, drawn his own and sent it through the man's kidney.

She barely recognizes the Illya who stands over the man’s body, watching him die with cold eyes. Her hindbrain suddenly remembers what it is to _fear_ Illya, something she’d almost forgotten since Berlin, and she finds herself backing away.

Then he grimaces, clutching at where his grey sweater is gaping open to reveal an arcing wound, deep through the outside of his forearm.

"Ach, this is a new sweater," Illya tsks in annoyance, like he's not fucking dripping blood all over the concrete and like Gaby isn't standing next to him, frozen. She can't, she can't–

Solo finds them a few seconds later, stripping off his jacket and tying it around Illya's arm. As they go they're filling each other in on what they've discovered searching this warehouse, but the words all flow past Gaby's ears without catching properly.

She should be helping. She’s aware of herself just standing there uselessly, like she's observing another person, but she can’t, she can't–

"That’s enough," she hears Illya grumble. "Check on her."

Gaby's blank stare at the wall is interrupted when Solo appears in her vision. She jolts like she’s been struck by lightning, reeling away and suddenly realizing that the way she's reacting isn't just unhelpful, but genuinely _wrong_ , and God, she hates herself for it. She can't, she can't–

"Whoa, whoa, you're okay," Solo murmurs. Gaby just shakes her head. Then, when she fails to respond beyond that. “I can't see–Where did she get hit? She's pale as a damn sheet.”

“No. I think she has shock,” Illya offers.

"I'm fine," she snaps, even though she's not. But she has to be. “Let's go.”

The men exchange a look but say nothing.

The walk back to the car passes in a haze. The corridors of the warehouse become too narrow for them to go shoulder-to-shoulder so Illya falls to the back and Solo takes the lead. Gaby trails close enough behind Solo that their surroundings melt away as her vision is filled with the broad expanse of his shoulders, which shift in a metronomic sway with each step he takes. It helps; gives her something to focus on that isn’t the way her ribcage feels too tight. She doesn't notice that they've made it outside until Solo stops and she collides with his back.

By the time they make it to the safehouse Waverly is waiting with a doctor.

Gaby finds the sofa nearest the front door and doesn't so much actively sit down as she just stops keeping herself upright. Everyone else hurries Illya to the kitchen to work on his arm. She is completely ignored.

Time passes. Waverly wanders out to check on her at one point. She tells him she's fine. He gives her a dubious look but goes back to the kitchen. Suddenly her entire body is heavy with fatigue. So unbearably heavy. But she has to stay awake. She has to. She can't–

"Gabs?"

Gaby jolts into wakefulness at Solo's soft voice. "Don't _do_ that," she snarls. "Fuck. Where's–?"

"In the bedroom."

Gaby bolts up. When she slips into the bedroom Illya is asleep, left arm swathed in white bandages and thrown out across the blankets. Gaby stands frozen in the doorway, trying to tell herself that he's not dead, terrified to get closer and confirm one way or another for herself.

Eventually she crawls onto the bed, freezing when Illya frowns with a bleary noise.

"It's okay, it's just me," she soothes.

"Hi." Illya squints at her, smiling weakly before frowning again. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." That’s not entirely true, but it's enough for now. "I–" She pauses as Illya takes her hand in his good one, absurdly large and a bit clammy, but she slots her fingers into the spaces between his. Illya begins stroking the back of her knuckles with his thumb in slow sweeps. Sometimes she can't fathom the sheer, bone-deep gentleness of this man. His kindness.

"You what?" Illya prompts softly.

"I'm glad you're here. Glad you’re okay." There's more she wants to say, more she should say but can’t, but Illya's eyelids are fluttering, as much as he's trying to stay awake for her. So instead she grips his hand tighter and tells him to go to sleep.

It shouldn't mean anything that he obeys her simple order instantly, she reminds herself.

Footsteps approach, loud enough that she doesn't startle when she senses Solo in the doorway. He's usually light-footed as he is light-fingered, nimble for a big man. She wonders if he’s walking like that for her benefit.

"He wouldn't let them numb him to do the stitches," Solo's tone dips with bitten-off disapproval, "so he's pretty wiped. Toughing out that amount of pain takes a lot out of a person. Now, what about you?"

"No," Gaby huffs. "No doctors. I'm fine."

"Yeah, I figured you'd say that.” His disapproval turns to resignation as he steps closer, settling beside her on the bed. "I sent everyone else home. So you can do whatever it is you need to be okay, without some stranger and your boss hanging around, staring at you."

That finally makes her turn. His face is scrubbed clean and he's changed into a white t-shirt, but exhaustion is etched deep around his eyes.

She lets herself fall forward, her forehead hitting his chest with a low thud before she presses her face into him, rubbing against him like a cat as tears prickle behind her eyelids. He doesn't react until she vines her arms around his ribs, sighing with relief when his arms surround her.

"You're gonna be okay," he murmurs. "You and I both know that. You're the toughest goddamn person I've ever met."

She doesn't need him to say that. It's been twenty years since she’s even had anyone stick around long enough to tell her things like that.

But maybe she likes hearing it. And maybe she's a lot more okay with that than she'd ever thought she could be.

 

* * *

 

She tries to fall asleep in her own bed that night. In the past whenever she's had a bad day all she's wanted is to be alone. It shouldn't be any different now.

An hour is all she lasts before she finds Solo, shakes him awake and drags him into Illya's room. Illya wakes just long enough to scoot over and make space for them. Gaby tugs and pushes at Solo until she gets him where she wants, then she slides in between them and finally, finally, she can sleep.

 

* * *

 

The Warsaw mission is scrubbed. While Illya recovers they’re sent to Amsterdam and put up in series of flats. Gaby forces herself to stay in her own apartment the first night, barely sleeps, then joins the guys for breakfast and snaps at Illya, blaming jetlag when he asks why she looks so tired.

During the day she and Solo do a bit of surveillance, coordinating with Dutch intelligence, such light work that it's obvious this ‘mission’ is Waverly’s way of giving them some time off.

That evening they meet up again for dinner at Illya's, which stretches into drinks sprawled out on the couch with Solo while he plays chess with Illya and Gaby practices her Russian on them. As the clock approaches midnight she finds herself leaning into Solo's shoulder while she half listens to Illya's attempts to correct her use of the genitive case.

When Illya declares it bedtime and rises Gaby doesn't resist trailing after him, trusting Solo to follow her lead. Illya glances back at both of them, surprised. Gaby gives him a glare as she slips in next to him and he wisely chooses not to comment.

 

* * *

 

They're sleeping together but they're not _sleeping together_. For the first two weeks Illya is too sore for doing much of anything, let alone sex. He tries to act okay but Gaby knows his painkillers make him feel slow and muzzy, and he won’t accept that because even now, with his arm sliced open, if she or Solo were attacked Illya would want to fight to protect them, right to the death.

She doesn't want him to die for her, doesn't want the idea weighing down her shoulders. She wishes she could tell Illya she values him far beyond his ability to give and take violence, but she doesn't know how.

So in lieu of those words she just stays. In his bed, hanging around his flat during her off hours. Sitting on the bathroom counter, handing supplies to Solo while he changes Illya's dressings, a system they arrive at only after stubborn, ridiculous Illya tries to do the job himself and makes a complete mess of it. Bandaging one's own arm is not easy.

Solo stays too. Gaby doesn't think that he has thought about it as much as her. Nor that he assigns it as much meaning as Illya. She's pretty sure that Solo has trained himself to live on whatever scraps of human contact that are offered to him and not to get greedy by asking for anything real. So he merely accepts, without expectation or hope for more, and tells himself it’s enough.

 

* * *

 

One night Gaby is lying awake. Sleep never comes to her in full eight-hour spreads but in teasing morsels of a few hours at a time, so it isn't unusual for her to have some time to contemplate the wall around four a.m.

Her back is to Illya tonight, Solo on his far side, and normally the men are deep sleepers, but this night Solo’s restless, breathing fitful. Then she hears him grab a breathless gasp of air. The bed shifts, as if he’s lifting up onto one elbow to look around. After a moment he sags against the pillow, lungs emptying in a rush.

"Fuck," he hisses.

Gaby is about to speak when Illya’s gravelly voice emerges from the dark.

“Cowboy? What’s wrong?”

"Nothing. Go back to sleep." It’s the first time Gaby’s heard Solo genuinely rattled.

"I’m okay," Illya offers softly. “Her too. We’re all okay.”

An uncertain, broken noise makes its way out of Solo’s throat. Then Illya is shifting against Gaby’s side, turning to face Solo. There’s more shuffling before she hears one of them, she’s not sure which, release a relieved sigh.

“Thanks,” Solo whispers.

It’s the smallness of that ‘thanks’ that finally makes Gaby roll over, wriggling forward to press herself into Illya’s back as she reaches across him, her hand settling on Solo’s waist where he’s wrapped in Illya’s arms. Together, they take their comfort from each other and fall back asleep.

When she wakes in the morning she has drifted away from the men. She opens her eyes to see Illya, returning her gaze in sapphire blue, Solo now curled around him from behind. Illya grins, dozy, soft, and a rush of warmth floods Gaby's chest.

"Dobro–" Illya begins before catching himself. "Good morning."

He's smiling at her and suddenly Gaby can't bear not to kiss him. She stretches forward, her hand finding Solo’s arm, and delights in stealing the surprised breath right from Illya's mouth. It's the first time she's ever kissed him other than hurried, heated making out when they've had sex, and she's expecting it to make her want to run, but instead she just feels...happy.

"Hi," she greets him when she pulls away, self-satisfaction mixing with warmth in her chest at the dazed, pleased way he stares back. Solo mumbles something into Illya’s shoulder before relaxing again with a low hum. And _maybe_ , Gaby thinks for the first time, this whole thing might be a bit less scary than she'd thought.

 

* * *

 

It's been long enough since her conversation with Solo in the dingy kitchen of that safehouse two missions ago that Gaby has almost forgotten what they'd discussed.

So she hasn't gone looking. Really, she hasn't. But the target leads her into a seedy neighbourhood, and after the third sex shop they pass Gaby starts to remember her plans.

The next morning she leaves for her shift an hour early, giving herself time for a shopping trip.

 

* * *

 

A month after Warsaw, after suffering some prodding from doctors and being told he's very lucky there was no nerve damage, Illya is cleared for a few hours of surveillance duties each day. It's light work, and his arm still hurts if he moves it wrong, but it's the first major step on his way back.

When Gaby returns from her shift she doesn't bother going to her own flat, which she's barely used since they've been here, instead letting herself into Illya's place and finding him and Solo sitting on the sofa, making out. Ignoring their apologies for starting without her, Gaby marches over and slips between them.

(Which might be her favourite place in the world.)

They stumble into the bedroom in a frantic tangle. Gaby's efforts to undress Solo keep getting interrupted by the way Illya is shamelessly grinding against whoever’s closest. But soon they're all naked on the bed and Illya is probably close to suffocating with the way Gaby's thighs are squeezed around his head, but he doesn't complain, working her through a dizzying orgasm until she lets her legs flop apart in boneless satisfaction.

"I missed doing that," Illya growls, wincing as he shifts onto his bad arm, but he climbs up to flop against the pillows and is met by a sloppy kiss from Solo. They both melt against each other, groping and groaning, and God, Gaby missed _this_ , too. She idly reaches over, leans up to stroke a hand through Solo's hair, provoking a soft hum from him, then tugs until he breaks away from Illya.

"Can I help you?" Solo questions.

Gaby bites her lip, gazing at Illya before losing her nerve. "Before Illya got hurt, we talked about...Do you both still want to–?"

For an uncomprehending second Illya just looks at her. Then his eyes go wide. "Oh! Ah, yes. Yes, I still want to do that." Solo chimes in with similar agreements.

"Now?" she asks.

Illya blinks. "Now? I mean, yes, very much yes, but you already have–?"

Ducking down, Gaby finds the bag she'd stashed a week earlier under the bed and re-emerges, laughing when Illya asks in pained arousal how long _that's_ been there. Pulling out the strap-on provokes interested noises from both men.

"You've been shopping," Solo comments, sliding closer. "Nice choices. May I?"

Gaby nods, clambering off the bed as Solo kneels at her feet, holding the harness steady for her to step into. A shivery thrill goes up her spine as his fingers trail up her hip, along the crease of her thigh, settling the straps into place before he starts tightening everything. The dildo bobs out proudly before her, obscenely purple and a bit crooked. Solo adjusts its fit within the ring then, blue eyes holding her gaze, presses a kiss to the very tip, waggling his eyebrows. Gaby huffs with laughter.

"How's that?" Despite the antics Solo turns serious, genuinely checking in with her.

"Good," Gaby replies, curling one hand around her new cock in an experimental grasp.

From the bed comes a noise that's half growl, half groan, and all desperation. Gaby turns, finds Illya almost vibrating with restraint as he stares at her.

"Going to get yourself ready, Peril?" Solo prompts. "Or are you just watching tonight?"

Illya nearly falls off the bed in his haste to grab the lube from the bedside table and slick up his own fingers. She watches as he slides one into himself with a quiet moan before she gets distracted by the way Solo starts nosing up her thigh, his breath sighing out damp and hot against her skin.

Then he leans back, lapping at her dick before taking the tip into his mouth. Though there's no sensation beyond a bit of pressure as the dildo shifts, Gaby still feels her breathing hitch at the sight. She winds her fingers through his hair in warning before making a cautious thrust forward, not wanting to choke him.

But Solo outdoes her. He sets his hands on her hips, holding her still, takes a deep breath through his nose then sinks deeper, her cock disappearing between his lips. Gaby watches, heart hammering in her throat, waiting for him to stop, waiting, waiting, until suddenly she realizes he’s not going to stop.

Solo finally noses against the curls covering her mound, a pleased hum rumbling in his throat.

Illya makes a noise like he's been shot.

“Jesus fucking _Christ_ ,” Gaby hears herself gasp. Solo’s response is to start moving, bobbing at an almost leisurely pace on her cock. When she looks further down he’s as hard as she's ever seen him, obviously enjoying himself.

Unbidden, she gets a sudden image of having him deepthroat her while Illya fucks him. She needs to claw her hands into his shoulders to keep herself upright.

Off to her right Illya rasps out a desperate curse in Russian, then something which might be 'please'.

Solo pulls off her dick with a wet noise so both of them can stumble back to an Illya who's sprawled out against the pillows, one leg splayed out gracelessly, two fingers pumping into his own ass, his cock dark and thick against his stomach. He looks half wrecked. It's beautiful. It's not enough.

Gaby wants him completely wrecked.

"Are you ready?" she asks as she settles next to him.

"Yes," Illya says between breathless nods.

"Hands and knees."

Illya obeys in an instant. For a reward, Gaby strokes a loving hand over his ass before giving him a light smack. As always, Illya makes a surprised grunt that melts into a groan.

She lets Solo roll a condom onto her when he offers the explanation “makes cleanup easier”, slicks herself up, then rises to her knees, taking Illya by the hips, savouring the way he shivers when she grinds along the cleft of his ass as heady anticipation courses through her. "Ready?"

Illya nods so quickly that his hair flops against his forehead. Despite the reassurance she goes slow, teasing his hole with just the tip then working herself into him in cautious, shallow motions. He's gone dead silent, trembling a little, his muscles tense. Gaby can't quite tell if he's enjoying this.

"Are you sure–?"

" _Yes_ ," he barks, the harshest he's ever spoken to her, clawing desperation mixed into his tone as his hands spasm around the sheets. He swears, his hips twitching back towards her, panting harshly through his nose. "Please, Gaby, please, more..."

"You're not going to break him," Solo points out drily. Gaby turns to find him lying back against the pillows like a sultan, his cock in hand but his grip around it loose. "But if you keep up that slow pace I'm pretty sure you're going to give him an aneurism. If I may offer my assistance.” At her nod he gets up onto his knees behind her, hands curling around her hips to pull himself closer until she feels him hard and hot between her ass cheeks.

"This is you helping?" Gaby retorts, idly grinding back against him.

Solo hums into her ear, hands squeezing her hips. "Follow my lead," he instructs before pushing forward against her, his momentum pressing her into Illya, who takes a sharp breath. "You'll get the hang of it," Solo assures her as he guides her through another smooth thrust with his pelvis and his hands. "Just a matter of practice." He noses her hair aside, presses his lips behind her ear, smirking into her skin. "I'm sure both Illya and I would be happy to help you get that practice."

Gaby rolls her eyes, trying to hide a grin by biting her lip. Any other man, she'd think this was just as an excuse to get himself off grinding against her, but as he leads her through a few more thrusts she starts to hear the difference in Illya's responses, more eager and less impatient.

Then Illya glances back over his shoulder just as Solo takes them into another tandem thrust, this one deep and forceful. Illya whines, almost wails, his eyes screwing shut as he collapses onto his elbows, face pressing into the bed.

With the next thrust Solo alters their angle, accommodating for Illya's changed position, and Illya makes a sound she's never heard him make before, a breathless exaltation that bleeds into him chanting 'please, please, please'.

"Oh." Heady power flares through Gaby at the thought that she's done that to him. Not waiting for Solo she repeats the motion, focusing on getting the angle just right, and Illya swears.

Solo kisses his way up the side of her neck, releasing her hips to palm her breasts. "You good from here?"

Gaby hums by way of answer, driving back into Illya and grinning as he produces another desperate sound, provoking little swirls of warm arousal in her while she starts to steadily take him apart.

"You know," Gaby murmurs after a minute, looking down to where Illya is clenched around her, "you look great stretched out on my cock."

She times it just as she's hitting Illya right where he wants it, so he nearly sobs, eyes flying open, suddenly desperate and unraveling.

"Oh God," he babbles, "please, Gaby, I need–I need–" Then he seems to lose the thread altogether, letting out a little burst of jumbled Russian, too fast for her to get.

"He wants to turn over," Solo translates. "Wants to see your face." Then, off a sharp rebuke from Illya, "Sorry, you want to see _our_ faces. You know, given that _you’re_ the one getting fucked within an inch of their life here, I really don't think you're in the position to be getting picky about my translations."

"Stop baiting him," Gaby chides while she slides out of Illya, ignoring his unhappy noise, and prods Solo in the shoulder. "Get a pillow."

There's some shuffling around. Illya manages to lean on his bad arm the wrong way as he's turning over and he goes white with pain. But they get him situated on his back, pillow under his hips, open and eager for her.

Gaby crawls between his legs, running her hands up his thighs and seeing goosebumps rise in her path. Briefly she considers hiking his legs over her shoulders, liking the idea of him bent in half for her, but instead she nudges them further apart, stretching out along his body, grinding their cocks together just for the way he ruts against her, guileless, uncontrolled. She lines herself up, sinking into him with a slow, deep glide that draws a rattling groan from him, rumbling against the hand she has braced on his ribs.

The angles are different like this so it takes a half dozen strokes to find the right motion. But then Illya starts keening out breathless sounds like he's taking flight. He keeps fighting with himself to look at her, eyes by turns shuttered in concentration or open in glazed wonder.

Something is missing, though, she's lost Solo, so she reaches for him. He obeys her summons, combing through her hair to pull the sweat-damped locks out of her face, off her neck, covering every newly exposed piece of skin with his mouth. She accepts his touches with a grateful hum, but it's still not enough; she wants to reach up to kiss Illya, to nip off all of the needy noises he makes and swallow them for herself. He's too tall, she can't get there from this angle, so she pushes Solo up in her stead.

Gaby is tiring, her thighs and core muscles burning, but she can tell that Illya is getting close. He starts bracing into her thrusts, greedily fucking himself onto her cock, and he breaks away from Solo's kiss to gasp, open mouthed, around words which he can't quite manage to form.

Solo catches her eye with a questioning quirk of his eyebrows. Gaby nods slightly, then pushes past her fatigue, driving into Illya faster, harder, watching Solo finally take Illya in hand, though his touch is light. Illya begins making needy little keens, thrashing between them like he’s trying to lean into both sensations at once and his wires keep getting crossed.

 _Perhaps they've always been leading up to this_ , Gaby thinks. _Ever since Berlin. Her and Solo working together, the perfect fit of two opposing gears, and Illya ruined by their mutual efforts._

“You know what?” Solo muses, somehow picking up on her unspoken thought. “I bet if you and I tag-teamed him for long enough we could get him to come without even touching his dick. We should try--”

Illya straight-up _wails_ , interrupting Solo, and that mental image seems to be what pushes him off the cliff. Groaning like they're slicing him open, Illya suddenly falls apart, spurting all over Solo’s hand and his own stomach, taking Gaby so completely by surprise that her thrusts falter. But when she goes still he whines, incoherent, like he needs more, so she thrusts once, deep, hard, and he gives one more weak pulse with an almost pained noise before he collapses back against the pillows.

Gaby stares down at him, his eyes glazed, splattered in his own come, chest lurching like he’s just surfaced after nearly drowning. She _did that_ to him.

( _Mine, mine, mine_ , her inner voice chants again, her head roaring with white noise)

As she lets herself fill up with warm triumph she sags, hands braced on Illya’s hips. She hadn’t realized just how tired she’d been but now her arms are trembling, her legs feel like rubber. Carefully slipping out, she positions herself between Illya and Solo before artlessly flopping onto her back, grinning, grinning wider still at the fond look Solo gives her.

"You're amazing, Gabs," he tells her as his questing fingers trace under her thighs, finding the releases for her harness.

"Incredible," Illya sighs from her right, sounding only half with them, half on some other plane of existence.

Gaby closes her eyes as Solo finally frees her. She lifts her hips enough to help him but otherwise does no work, letting him care for her in this tiny, intimate moment, in a way she never would in the harsh daylight of their everyday life. After he sets the toy aside he's back, dropping little kisses everywhere the harness was pressed into her skin. Gaby sighs, petting his hair with clumsy hands as he guides her legs over his shoulders and licks a languid path up her sex.

In the wake of her frantic joining with Illya she'd expected herself to be keyed up, even wild, but instead she melts into Solo's easy, understated motions. Usually Illya is the one she turns to for gentleness; she and Solo have never really been _this_ to each other. Yet now he works her up almost tenderly, molten heat pooling slow and deep in her belly, before his fingers crook against that spot deep within her just right, his tongue doing something miraculous on her clit, and she pulses into an orgasm with a low moan.

He keeps going until she nudges him away with her knee. She turns to Illya, discovers him watching the two of them with a smile that's all warmth, all affection, all something else that Gaby can't quite name which sends another fluttery rush through her. He leans down to kiss her, light, bright. Then they both look to Solo.

He's sat up and turned half away, still hard, yet giving them an almost abashed look, uncomfortable, like he expects to be kicked out, told to finish himself off. She can see his lips quirking to form some self-effacing quip, and suddenly she can't bear to hear it.

"C'mere," she insists, grabbing at his arms and manoeuvring him back between her legs. She may be done but when she tells him "I want this" she means it.

He's still hesitating, like he's certain he can't be hearing her right, so Gaby wraps her legs around him, brings him closer, takes the condom that Illya offers and rolls it onto Solo, then smiles when his length slides along her sex and he closes his eyes, sighing.

His head drops to her chest with a soft thunk when he pushes into her. Normally she'd need to be on top, need whatever scraps of power she could cling to, but she finds those clawing urges quieted by Illya's easy submission to her earlier, so she welcomes Solo into her body, enjoying the warmth of his contact without trying to chase an orgasm.

She tugs him up for a quick kiss, then lets him stretch out along her as Illya starts pressing loving kisses to his shoulders, his neck, causing him to shudder between them like he's shaking apart from the inside out.

It's the quietest Solo has ever been with either of them. He's always bantered while he's fucking, even when Gaby tells him to shut the fuck up, which has happened more than once. She'd assumed that was just the way he was, but now that he's silent apart from his breaths in her ear, puffing hot against the side of her neck, she wonders if maybe he's been worried that if he stops talking they'd stop focusing on the fucking and start focusing on him, and that they wouldn't like what they'd find.

Even when he comes, Solo is quiet, face buried in the crook of her neck, releasing a low, grumbling moan as his thrusts stutter to a halt. He even collapses onto her, something he's never done before, making her realize again just how tightly he's been keeping himself together, folded in crisp military corners for their view, never showing them his messy, unmade, honest side.

Normally she'd hate this too, being crushed, but she senses that if she snaps at him now he'll retreat again from her, perhaps forever. And some part of her is savouring the warm weight of him, so she strokes his hair, kissing his temple, and lets him breathe until he collects himself enough to lift off.

They all lie shoulder-to-shoulder-to-shoulder for a minute. Gaby keeps her eyes closed, her body humming with satisfied want. With regret they all start to clean up, puttering around each other, reuniting to collapse onto the bed again.

Gaby forces Solo to lie in the middle. He gives her a look but says nothing, mouth twitching into a half smile as she curls into him, tugging at his arms and pushing him around until she's satisfied. As always, he indulges her with some teasing protests but no real complaint, which Gaby returns in barbs that lack much bite. For the moment Gaby has no worries beyond this nook of body heat that the three of them have carved out together.

"I..." Illya suddenly says, breaking the silence.

Gaby goes still, waiting, feeling Solo freeze too.

Illya sighs. "Never mind," he mutters. Across Solo's body she hears him shift, sees his shoulder rise as he turns his back to them.

Gaby tries to tell herself it probably means nothing. She's not very successful.

 

* * *

 

 _Never mind_.

As Gaby stares at the ceiling, the quiet resignation of Illya's words lingers.

The worst thing might be that she can't even pretend ignorance about what he's trying to say. She's known. Ever since that final day in Rome, when she would have kissed him and it would have been real.

She's been so caught up in running from _real_.

Gaby glances over to her right. Illya has turned, curling into Solo's side, unconsciously seeking comfort as both of them breathe slow and steady. As she watches her lips do some foolish thing that she suspects is a smile.

She reaches a decision and goes back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

In the morning Gaby can't take it any longer.

"Illya," she begins, causing everyone to pause in their breakfast. "I'm not...I'm not good with–" she gestures between the three of them "this. At being _with_ people. But I know you need...I can't say the important things yet. I'm not...it's not that I don't want to, I just can't, but..."

When she pauses, daring to look up, Solo is trying that blank face of his, but something is cracking through the mask, some vulnerability. Illya, his eyes wide, looks torn between trepidation and restrained hope. She thinks of him sliced open, thinks of them coming apart for her, thinks of the warmth of their shared life and how much she wants to cling to that, even if the act of clinging scares her.

(Mine, mine, _mine_ , her heart declares, and this time it means so much more than their bodies.)

"But I know that's not fair. I know you need to hear...I want this," she manages to say. "Whatever this is, I want it." Then in a small, tremulous voice that she hates herself for. "I want you. Both of you," she adds with a fierce look at Solo.

It feels like a tiny offering, at the same time it feels like a huge effort. Like she's tried her hardest but it shouldn't be enough.

Illya smiles, slow at first, growing. Solo sags, corners of his mouth curling up.

For today it’s enough.

 

* * *

 

They're _sleeping together_ and they're sleeping together and they're _together_.

She can’t do ‘forever’ yet but she can do ‘I want you’ every time Illya needs to hear it, every time Solo doubts it, and for what they need right now it’s enough. Whenever she says it she feels a bit closer to being okay with saying other things too; perhaps not ‘forever’ but something like that. Someday.

And the following week, with her new toy, Gaby finds a fresh way to shut Solo up in bed. Illya helps.

It’s not just enough. It’s so much more.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Content warnings** : Illya receives a knife wound to his arm during a tussle with a baddie. The wound is described briefly, as is Illya's subsequent killing of the baddie. The violence is very brief and I would say canon typical.
> 
> After this Gaby has a somewhat traumatic reaction to the situation. She partially dissociates for a few minutes, then struggles a bit to "come down" from it. No flashbacks are explicitly described. 
> 
> The sex explicitly describes anal sex, with fingers and penises and dildos (no rimming/oral), cunnilingus, (brief) deepthroating of a dildo, and penis-in-vagina. There is no overt D/S but Gaby, uh, likes being in charge and is bossy as all hell. Illya gets one (1) spank on the ass which he both deserves and enjoys thoroughly. Mild, brief dirty talk, no humiliation/degradation. Condoms are used for all penetrative sex.
> 
>  **Thanks and whatnot**  
>  To the city of Warsaw, I apologize for casting aspersions on your selection of sex toys. I'm sure it's wonderful and comprehensive, and unfairly maligned by Solo.
> 
> To my beta, bioticsandheadshots, you are a treasure, and there's no one with whom I'd rather brainstorm ways to describe a man fingering his own ass than you.
> 
> To my squad, stay salty. *fingerguns*


End file.
